Semua Bab Echelon: Bab 21 - Bab 30

The morning after the shoot, the office was unrecognizable. The chaos of lights and lenses had vanished, replaced with the hushed concentration of editors and designers poring over drafts. The air smelled faintly of coffee, ink, and deadlines, sharp and steady.On the long conference table, contact sheets spilled like cards in a high-stakes game. Pages of transcript lay marked in Sofia's neat, color-coded handwriting. Joan sat at the head of the table with her laptop, clicking through mock-ups, sunglasses perched like a crown. Damien floated from corner to corner, lifting photographs toward the ceiling as though waiting for divine revelation."This one," Damien declared, stabbing at a black-and-white shot where Anita leaned forward, gaze direct, jaw tight. "It's power. It's intimacy. It's the kind of photo that says, 'I own this country, and also your boyfriend.'""Too severe," Joan countered. "We want aspirational, not terrifying. This one." She slid over a softer portrait, Anita in

The week after Andrew's birthday stretched like a bruise.Her phone stayed silent. The boy who used to light up her evenings with late-night jokes and sneakers-on-a-bench photos had vanished. Calls went unanswered. Messages hung unread.Then came the whispers.Andrew Lorenzo had quit the varsity team. Walked out mid-practice and never came back. Some said he was burned out. Others claimed he was out every night, drinking in BGC at XYLO, slipping into speakeasies in Poblacion, spotted at Rockwell's high-rise condos that pulsed with bass until dawn. Always, there were women. Women at Revel, women at Bank Bar, women photographed on Instagram stories that vanished too quickly.Carrie tried not to listen. But the ache in her chest told her it was true.That Friday, Gracie insisted on hosting a party at her apartment. Smaller than her rooftop gathering, but still alive with chatter, music thumping from a speaker on the counter, and bottles lined up like soldiers along the kitchen island.Ca

At first, Carrie waited.Every morning, she unlocked her phone before even brushing her teeth, half-expecting Andrew's name to glow on the screen. Every night, she stared at the ceiling of her condo, rehearsing the words she'd say when he finally reached out. I knew you'd call. I missed you too.But the days passed, and Andrew never did.She thought maybe he just needed time. Maybe he would throw himself back into the varsity team, pick up where he left off, and things between them would settle into something steady. But the news spread fast around Katipunan: Andrew Lorenzo had officially quit the team. Walked out, never came back.Then came the stories.She heard them from classmates, from Gracie, from whispers carried across cafeteria tables. Andrew at a condo in Makati, music thumping until sunrise. Andrew in BGC, drunk and laughing. Andrew with girls, always different girls.Carrie's stomach twisted each time. Wasn't what they shared supposed to be different? Special? The way he h

Carrie didn't wait for the last song to finish. She slipped out of the party like a ghost escaping a haunted house. No goodbye to Gracie, no nod to Damien, only the hurried sound of her heels against the pavement and the desperate wave at the first cab she saw.Her breathing was uneven, almost frantic, the kind of breath that hurt because holding it in would have hurt worse. The night air was thick with humidity, neon lights flickering off puddles on the street, and strangers around her laughed as if the world was not collapsing inside her chest. The cab slowed and she yanked the door open, sliding into the back seat without looking back. She could still hear the muffled music from the party, the bass vibrating through her bones like a heartbeat she could not control.Inside the cab, her mask cracked. She pressed her forehead to the window, tears spilling hot and heavy, fogging up the glass as the city lights smeared into colors she couldn't name. Her chest hurt the way only first hea

The Peninsula ballroom shimmered under chandeliers, every crystal dripping light across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Violins hummed beneath the chatter of Manila's elite, cameras flashing in quick staccato bursts as couture gowns swept past. The Solaya Gala was alive, decadent, noisy, the city's annual theater of power dressed up as charity.It smelled of expensive perfume and privilege. Waiters glided between tables like choreography, carrying champagne flutes that seemed to refill themselves. Conversations floated, names of politicians and business families dropped like confetti. Every corner held whispered deals disguised as compliments. It was a night where reputation mattered more than charity, where people watched each other as much as the program.Carrie cut through it all with practiced poise, clipboard in hand, Sofia pacing close behind with her tablet and headset. She was efficiency personified, the steady center of the storm.She gave instructions without raisi